


The Birdhouse

by WendyNerd



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, BUFFALO BILL RETELLING SO YEAH THERE'S FATPHOBIC AND TERF BULLSHIT IN THERE, Bisexuality, Divorce, F/M, FATPHOBIA CW, Hannibal is a bottom, Intentionally obnoxious OC, Latinx!Clarice, M/M, MENTIONS OF SELF HARM CW, MENTIONS OF TRUMP CW, Multi, Pining, Romantic Angst, Season 4 version of Silence of the Lambs, Sexual Tension, Stuck in a house together cliche, Trans!Ardelia, cannibalism cw, content warnings for, doggos are sweet, jobs are hard, mental illness cw, mutilation cw, racism cw, sexism cw, snark exchanges, suicidal thoughts cw, transphobia cw, violence cw
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2020-06-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:08:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24746602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WendyNerd/pseuds/WendyNerd
Summary: Nearly two years after The Red Dragon is taken down, Dr. Hannibal Lecter is back at Baltimore State, pining for Will Graham and being annoyed by Dr. Chilton and his new orderly. At the end of his rope with the Buffalo Bill case, Jack Crawford enlists the help of the recently-returned Will Graham and the up-and-comer Clarice Starling. Season 4 retelling of Silence of the Lambs
Relationships: Alana Bloom/Margot Verger, Hannibal Lecter/Original Female Character(s), Will Graham/Clarice Starling, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 6
Kudos: 23





	The Birdhouse

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys, this is my first Hannibal fic, as well as the first fic I have posted in years. I don't have a beta yet (if you're interested, please contact me on twitter @thewendynerd or on tumblr @wendynerdwrites). I'm a little sensitive about some of the content in this since I am both cis and white and don't want to write anything that will hurt people. 
> 
> Fuller said that Clarice would be a WOC if they got a season 4 and I made her Latinx. I want to make sure I handle that well. Also, since this will cover the Buffalo Bill case and the original version isn't... great (yeah I know the original work says Bill isn't really trans but it's still questionable). I have an idea of how I want to twist that (beyond just making one of the heroes trans) but I don't want to fuck this up. I don't want to give the ending away to everyone but if any trans readers are willing to help me with that, I'd love a PM so I can bounce my idea off of anyone. I've asked some trans friends but not every trans experience is the same so I'm totally open to hearing more. 
> 
> Also, I know that the pairings listed might be iffy, but I promise I don't intend to straight wash Hannibal and Will's relationship. Just fuck with the dynamic a bit. Anyways, hope you enjoy. But if I pull some Becky/cisgirl bullshit in this story don't be afraid to check me.
> 
> Also any and all commentary on characterization is welcome!

Hannibal:

“What do you feel when you finish one of your drawings?”

Hannibal Lecter represses the urge to roll his eyes at Dr. Chilton. He knows that’s what the man wants. When he is forced to endure one of these sessions, the only facial expression he permits himself is an exaggerated grimace at first sight of his jailer. 

Despite the best care and skin grafts, Frederick Chilton is unspeakably ugly now. There’s no prosthetic that can fully repair what Dolarhyde did to him. Chilton looks like someone broiled Mason Verger, slathered on some makeup, and stuck a bad hairpiece on him. Every few months, Dr. Chilton “takes a vacation” for about six weeks and returns looking slightly sadder and tighter than before. Judging by the state of his worn out loafers and wool suits, he’s exhausting his bank account in pursuit of anything resembling his old face. Whenever Chilton returns from one of his failed “vacations”, he subjects his favorite patient to extra long therapy sessions filled with inane questions.

Chilton is hardly better as a psychiatrist than he was as a surgeon.

But he is good at annoying Hannibal, at least, though Lecter believes that these sessions are at least partially torturous for the deformed doctor as well. He suspects that the only satisfaction Chilton gets anymore is from the knowledge that he is wasting Hannibal’s time, and that he is willing to subject himself to whatever is necessary to achieve that. Pathetic.

“I feel equal parts nostalgia and satisfaction at what I have produced,” answers Hannibal neutrally. He sits in his cage, his shackled hands resting in his lap. 

His artwork is piled haphazardly on a stool beside Chilton’s chair. Chilton grabs one sheet roughly.

“Judging by your repertoire, you feel a lot of nostalgia for various grand locales. Must be quite the contrast to your surroundings now. Your only view is a brick wall.”

Hannibal shrugs. It’s been over a year of this. Chilton should realize by now that goading him about his paltry surroundings isn’t going to work. He’s found solace in his imagination. Enough to ignore and tolerate the lack of luxury.

“Like a typical psychopath, you seem to value the memory of things, not people.”

Hannibal’s lip curls. “I have rarely met people worth remembering.”

“Not even… Will Graham?”

 _Damn it._ Hannibal knows his expression has betrayed him before he can stop himself. It’s too instinctual. The worst part is, he’d been prepared himself for this in the early days. But he’d managed to overestimate Chilton’s competence and thought the topic would come up sooner. After a while, he gave up on it and assumed that that name would never reach his ears again. He’d slipped and now, the topic has taken him by surprise. Exactly the thing he wanted to avoid.

He manages to restrain himself somewhat, but Chilton’s eyes sparkle with satisfaction. Hannibal tries not to let it get to him. _Calm yourself. Don’t think of him._

He pauses before speaking. “Will Graham is no longer part of my life. I’ll never see him again. I’ve accepted that. No point in dwelling on him.”

“You’ll never see the Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore again either, and yet you sketch it with such attention to detail. So why not Will? Is it just too painful to think of him?”

 _Someday, I am going to finish the job Dolarhyde started._ Hannibal purses his lips. “The cathedral has stood for over five centuries and will stand for centuries more. Will Graham will live at most a few more decades.”

“All the more reason to immortalize him, don’t you think?” Chilton asks, giving his own painful mockery of a smirk. “After all, there are already plenty of depictions of the Cathedral, many by artists far more talented than yourself. Will, on the other hand---”

“---Why are you so fixated on Will Graham’s face, Dr. Chilton?” Hannibal interrupts, “Have you developed your own nostalgia for it? Your own admiration, perhaps? Even… sexual interest?”

He can tell that his question has stung at Chilton’s ego at least partly, but the other doctor recovers somewhat. And he smiles again. And Hannibal realizes that he’s revealed himself in his response. Cutting Chilton off like that is too emotional. Too obvious. _Damn it, I am out of practice._

“You’re projecting, Dr. Lecter.” Chilton sounds overjoyed. “Besides, if I was, Will Graham is back in town. I can see his face whenever I wish. A luxury you envy, I’m sure.”

Hannibal grits his teeth. Will? Back? Impossible, surely. No way Will has returned. If he was going to, he’d have done so already. 

“I’ll tell you what, Dr. Lecter, in the unlikely event that you’ve simply forgotten the details of Mr. Graham’s face, I’ll have a photograph delivered to your cell. Help you expand your artistic horizons.” Chilton stands. “I think we’re done for today. Charles?”

Chilton turns away and leaves the hall. Hannibal complies gently as Charles and the other orderly open his cage and strap him into his gurney. When he arrives back in his cell, he finds that Chilton has made good on his promise. A color print out of Will Graham’s FBI ID picture sits on his desk. Hannibal pretends to ignore it. He just goes back to the half-finished charcoal drawing of St. Peter’s Basilica. He doesn’t even brush the piece of paper aside.

That is, until well after light’s out. Well after even Multiple Miggs has shut up and lost consciousness. Then he gets out of bed, goes to his desk, and tears the photograph to shreds.

Will:

Molly left him only a year and a half after he awoke.

Will can’t blame her. He was lost to her the moment he returned to the F.B.I. It wasn’t her fault, though she had encouraged him to do it. She had no way of knowing. Will himself had not known at the time, but he should have. Perhaps part of him did. It was confirmed to him in du Maurier’s office.

“Is Hannibal in love with me?”

That question was answered, and he was done, really. Before that evening alone in the cabin with Hannibal. Before they finished Dolarhyde off. Before Will had embraced the Good Doctor, bloodstained and panting, and hurled them both off that cliff. Hell, that’s probably why he did it.

He hasn’t seen Hannibal since the two of them were dug out of the Atlantic. He was comatose for three months, and apparently Molly barely left his side the whole time. It was devotion he did not deserve, and he proved that to her once he was conscious again.

Will tried. He didn’t visit Hannibal again, of course. He didn’t speak his name. When questions were asked, Will went out of his way to call him “Dr. Lecter” in the most impersonal tone he could manage.

Dr. Lecter was dragged back to the Baltimore StateHospital for the Criminally Insane. Dr. Lecter did not go peacefully this time. Dr. Lecter took a few chunks of the agents that transported him with him. This time, Dr. Lecter was buried in the basement of the Hospital, surrounded by the same dank, brick walls that once encased Will.

Will, meanwhile, underwent the prescribed therapy. Even the psychological stuff he’d once balked at pre-Dr. Lecter. He did it for Molly. But even as he filed into Dr. Stamos’s room, his heart and stomach sank. Especially in the sessions where Molly joined him.

Will tried, but how hard, really? He knew it was futile. He hoped it wasn’t, but he knew better.

He knows from Molly’s tearful confessions in Dr. Stamos’s office that in his sleep, he’d say Hannibal’s name. That he’d lose focus when spending time with Wally and the dogs and call his step-son “Abigail” by mistake. That she’d catch him doodling mutilated bodies at his desk.

Then, he called out Hannibal’s name in an intimate moment.

There was also the stress of the investigations, of course. The F.B.I. had understandable questions as to why Bedelia du Maurier was found in her home dining on her own leg with two empty place settings at her table. They wanted psych evals. They even interrogated Molly.

But what was the final nail in the coffin was when his psych evaluation was cleared. The morning after, there was another bizarre killing in the news. Sitting at the breakfast table, Will suggested he return to his old job.

He did it without really thinking. And it really made no sense. He _hated_ his work. It nearly destroyed him countless times. It nearly _destroyed them._

Not nearly. Did.

Because the moment Will said it, Molly set her coffee cup down and rose. She put on her sweater quietly and told Wally to get his backpack. Will offered to join her dropping Wally off at school, but she declined with a quiet, crisp “No.” She didn’t say good-bye, didn’t acknowledge his farewell. She returned from her errand late, with a U-Haul in tow. She didn’t ask for help packing, but when Will started helping her, she did not resist.

Once upon a time, they spoke to each other so easily. It’s how they ended up getting married so fast. The month after they met was one of deep, easy, honest discussion. The sort of verbal intimacy that no therapist or psychiatrist could replicate.

She’d been his best friend. But she left, her son in tow, as a stranger.

All his fault.

Will had been left with nothing to do but to pack up the dogs and drive back to Wolf Trap. He’d never been able to sell his old house. Its reputation as the site of many gruesome stories about the Chesapeake Ripper kept buyers away. Alana had come through for him, picking up the tab for a caretaker to look after it.

He found it vacant, cold, and too clean. On his first night back, he slept on one of the dog beds, surrounded by the animals.

Molly knew him too well. Without a single phone call exchanged, divorce papers arrived on his doorstep two weeks after his return. Two days later, Jack was at his door.

The two men sit at his old breakfast table by the bay window, sipping coffee in silence for a few minutes until…

“I don’t need to convince you this time. You’ve come to me,” Jack states, almost defensively.

Will nods. No point in pretending. “Don’t worry about easing me in, Jack. I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t ready.”

“I’m not so sure of that. You don’t look good, Will.”

He shrugs. “You didn’t use me for my looks.”

“Yes, but the last time you looked this poor, things happened. Things I’d rather not repeat. I need to make sure you’re not going to break.”

“And I need---” He shouts, suddenly, rising from his seat. But he stops himself just in time. ‘ _And I need to make sure I do!’_ is what he was going to say. He and Hannibal Lecter are in love. An ending is all he wants. But he knows better. He sits again and lowers his voice. “And I need to get back to work. I can’t be alone with myself anymore.”

“You weren’t. Until Molly left. I’m sorry.”

“Well…” Will looked at his lap. “Molly and I couldn’t give each other what we needed anymore. But this… this is all I know how to do anymore.”

How the tables have turned. 

Jack takes a deep breath. “If I let you in… We can’t do this the same way again.”

“I figured.” Will rubs his jaw and stares into his cup. “What do you and Dr. Bloom suggest?”

“You can’t live alone. Not while you’re working. You’ll need to be looked after.”

Will chuckles. “Where will you send me, then? That facility you put Abigail in? The Academy dorms? A safe house?”

“A safe house, yes. You can bring your dogs. And you’ll have a companion. Think of it like a sober companion.”

“I’m not an addict.”

Jack gives him a somewhat incredulous look. They both know that’s a lie. But he leans back and doesn’t fight this point. “A bodyguard, then. Or a partner.”

Will smiles ruefully. _A babysitter._ “Who, then?”

~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~

Clarice:

Clarice Manuela Starling drops herself down from the other side of the rope wall and lands on the wet ground with a splash. Her grey sweats are soaked further, but she barely pays attention. Instead, she focuses on the path of tires ahead. 

But before she can make it to the next obstacle, she hears someone shout her name. She jerks her head to the side path to see a male agent waiting for her. He beckons her over. “You’ve been summoned. Crawford.”

She hasn’t spoken to Jack Crawford in weeks. The Head of the F.B.I.’s Behavioral Science Unit had taken a special interest in her soon after she’d entered the Academy, but had had his hands full with the Buffalo Bill case recently. She knows it to be far from solved, so she hadn’t expected to see Jack for many weeks more. 

Clarice had hoped, when the case got going, that Crawford would ask her to get involved. She is in the top quarter of her class, she has her Masters in both Criminology and Psychology. She’s done two years of Forensics Fellowships. And she knows he’s taken a shine to her. It would not be the first time he plucked a non-agent from the classroom and put them to work.

But as the weeks went on, she’d realized how stupid that had been. Everyone knows what happened to the last two non-agent proteges Jack had assigned to cases. Miriam Lass is now a drunk living off disability on some swamp in Florida and Will Graham… Well… He is long gone and has every reason in the world to be. Not that anyone in the Bureau is sorry about that.

She arrives in Jack Crawford's elegant, subdued office sweaty and muddy to find him standing and pouring over paperwork. He doesn’t even lift his head as she enters. “Starling, sit down.”

“It’s alright, Sir. With the state I’m in, I’d rather stand.” She’s covered in mud. The last thing she needs is to stain the seat cushions of one the Bureau’s finest. 

Jack shrugs, and continues reading to himself. She waits, feeling more than a little self-conscious. 

Finally, he looks up, closing a file and clutching his temple. “Apologies, Starling. I am afraid I have my hands full.”

“With Bill, Sir?” 

Jack nods and sits. “Among other things. Too many cold bodies, not enough warm ones. We require consultation.”

 _This is it._ She’s made of sterner stuff than Will Graham. She’s sure of it. And she’s studied enough not to repeat Miriam Lass’s mistakes. “Well, you know my background, Sir. Aside from the badge, I have---”

“---The appropriate degrees, yes. I know. But this assignment may be different than what you’re expecting, Starling. You’re not going to be so much consulting yourself as you are going to be managing other consultants for me.”

Her eyes narrow. “I don’t understand, Sir.”

“Starling, I know that despite your forensics work, you’ve had your eye on Behavioral Science since before you applied to the Academy.”

Clarice smiles. “Indeed, Sir. In fact, it was meeting you that got me to apply in the first place,” she reminds him. It was a guest lecture from Crawford at UVA that drew her to the Bureau. She’d interrogated him during his talk on the Bureau’s civil rights and diversity record. Afterwards,she’d bought him a drink. The mood in the room right now is a little too tense for her taste, and she hopes the memory might calm him. 

He’s clearly not in the sentimental mood. “But you’ve yet to deal with a madman in person, am I right?”

“I had exposure to mentally ill patients in college,” she says defensively. You can’t get your Master’s without lab work. 

“Not on the level we’re used to.” 

“No,” she admits. “But I have to start somewhere. And I’m ready, Sir. More than ready. And I’ll follow every order!”

Jack nods and leans back in his chair. “I’m not ready to put you directly on a psychopath’s trail yet. At least, not alone. And I don’t have the time or patience to babysit.”

“I don’t need a babysitter, Sir.”

“I know _you_ don’t. But someone else does.”

Clarice’s eyes narrow. “Then who, Sir?”

Crawford cringes. “I really think you may want to sit down, Starling.”


End file.
